It was Saturday, and we had reached the time of the week when we needed to eat something. Usually, this would mean hauling out the old gingerbread house and waiting patiently for naive German kids to get lost in the woods, but on this occasion we were in the mood for pizza and so decided to go to Borruso's instead.


Naive German Kids, Lost In The Woods.

Borruso's has an interesting vibe, it has a very "homely" type of atmosphere - with dim lights, rustic decor and the smell of rich mahogany. You can either sit outside in the yard, which is actually recommended, or inside, which is actually not recommended as it can get ridiculously warm and stuffy inside - causing fat people to shed buckets of perspiration, which of course can then be bottled and sold at the Neighbourhood Market at the Old Biscuit Mill.

Borruso's make pizza as well as pasta. I didn't try the pasta, because I hate pasta, a hatred stemming from my days as a struggling Hollywood actor in the late nineties, when all I could afford to eat was Taglietteli coated with salt and pepper.

So it was pizza then, and yes, they certainly make a good one. I had the one with bits of chicken and sun dried tomato, which was was rather pleasant and left me feeling quite satisfied.


Borrusos - Leaves You Feeling Satisfied

The staff are friendly and decent-looking, the food is pretty good, and it's well priced as well. They don't accept bookings though, so if you're ever in Kenilworth, and you're buying booze at the 7-11 on the corner, make a stop at Borruso's and get yourself a pizza.

You'll thank me later.

What: Borruso's Pizza and Pasta.
Where: On the corner of Kenilworth Main Road, next to the 7-11 (Where you can buy booze)
How Much: + - R65 per person.

[ | ]

It was a Thursday evening, which meant it was time for some Thursday evening loving. The Girlfriend seemed to disagree with me on this issue however, as she kept spraying me with holy water whenever I approached her on the communal bed. A priest had given her a vial of the holy stuff during the recent Easter weekend, and I found myself cursing Father Flanaghan as the liquid burnt my sinful body, causing me to swear in tongues, and walk backwards on all fours, in a weird and unnatural manner.

With my initial idea for the evening put on hold, we thus decided to take a walk through Kloof Street instead, as it was a beautiful late Summer's evening, and I couldn't really remember where I parked my car. Even when the sun goes down, Kloof Street is usually abuzz with activity, and tonight was certainly no exception. We were kept fairly busy, as I found myself warding off the drunken vagrants with my long limbs, drop kicking them several metres back whenever they approached us for bread and milk, which they were OBVIOUSLY going to barter for cheap spirits.

The Girlfriend meanwhile, was using her pepper spray to fend off the various drug addicted white youngsters who can be found wandering the streets at night, ALL claiming to live in Fish Hoek, and ALL claiming to need R4 to get back home that evening. Kloof Street is a bit like Long Street, except that it's not as long, and doesn't suck half as much.

As we walked on, a musical montage suddenly started playing, showing the various places we would often frequent. To the backdrop of Justin Timberlake's "Sexy back", we looked back at the following venues:

Kloof Street of course boasts the world famous Asoka, one of our favourite watering holes. Many people may be familiar with his mom Dharma, but Asoka has now also made quite a name for himself, and I regularly seem to find myself at this establishment, staring down an empty glass of Jameson, wondering how the f**k I got there, and enquiring as to who would be sorting out the massive drinks bill we had just amassed.

Arnold's is also another favourite of ours, a regular pit stop on a Saturday or Sunday morning, when over indulgence from the previous night means I can just about crawl there. The helpful staff will then pick me up, dust me off, and feed me a breakfast of fried eggs and bacon through an intravenous drip, helping me feel like a new man whilst teaching me to speak coherently and walk upright again.

The Lifestyle Centre is like a pretentious mall, offering a Woolies, the Wellness Warehouse as well as the (not the real) Labia theatre. Woolies is Woolies, for those days when I couldn't be arsed to make food in the kitchen, and instead need the instant gratification of a bottle of Ken Forresters, to make the world seem like a friendlier place. The Wellness Warehouse is the place to get high fibre grass muffins, organic mud masks, and other weird hippy shit that cleanses my system, but then leaves me smelling like a used diaper, causing strangers to throw rocks at me in the street. The (not the real) Labia theatre normally offers off-beat films that Mnet would usually show on a Monday or Wednesday night, never over the weekends or as a Sunday premiere. Many a Marzan Gold has been drunk in the theatre, the bottles also coming in handy to hurl at the annoying guy who keeps commenting during the movie, the same guy who wears flannel pyjama pants during the day, and has a long term relationship with a styrofoam cup called Doris.

There's also a decent Nando's, a Kauai as well as two coffee spots on either side of the road. (Vida and Seattle). The Kauai was the scene of the first argument The Girlfriend and I ever had, when she leapt across the table and put me in a vicious headlock after I said that Jennifer Anniston was boring, overrated and probably really crap in bed.

There are also various trendy clothing stores, as well as really arb shops known to sell really arb things, like the luminous Marilyn Monroe tog back I bought The Girlfriend for when she gyms, which mysteriously caught alight and ended up in the street outside, before she had a chance to use it.

Yes, Kloof Street is a lovely little stretch of road. There are literally thousands of other places to talk about, but it's quite late right now and I just don't give a f**k. I'm tired and I need to sleep.

I was actually meaning to do a write up about Caramello's, where we spent the evening, but I kind of went off on a tangent a little bit.

[ | ]

I've been waiting for you for AGES! Didn't you say we were meeting at that place?

I've been waiting here for the last 9 days now. Do you know how long that is? It's f**king long, let me tell you.

In that time I've managed to grow a long beard, start a family and plant a great and mighty orchard farm, which my kids will grow up on and enjoy every day, once their homework and other daily chores are complete.

Seriously, don't keep me waiting like that again, I had so much to tell you about the recent long weekend, but now I'm fed up so I won't.

...Alright, updates are coming shortly - just remember, the delay wasn't my fault, it was YOURS.

... okay, Papa forgives you, come and give him a hug now. There there, you mustn't be so naughty again.


[ | ]

Monday mornings at dawn will usually find me doing one of three things:

1) lying in bed in a deep slumber
2) having a warm shower
3) desperately trying to sober up for the upcoming work day.

It should NOT be spent in the middle of a punishing and unforgiving gym routine, which is of course what I found myself doing recently.


Shaun: Involved In A Punishing and Unforgiving Gym Routine.

“You look like a pregnant man. Doesn't this concern you?” whined the Girlfriend the other day, interrupting my viewing of Isidingo... The Need, and causing me to drop my whiskey tumbler to the floor.

“Of course it does, but I’ll let you sort something out” I said dismissively, whilst attempting to lick the spilt Jameson off the floor. I was expecting her to buy tanning lotions and the weight loss coffee we saw at Glomail, which literally eats away your fat cells in an aggressive yet medically safe manner.

The Girlfriend however, had grown tired of my chicken legs and under-developed upper body, and instead of coffee, had arranged for us to join the nearby Virgin Active, another brainchild of Richard Branson, and the scourge of lazy and pigeon-chested fellows everywhere.

Bizarrely, given the ungodly time, we arrived to find the place buzzing with activity, full of sweaty individuals risking heart failure in the pursuit of a six-pack, and not the type you could get in the backroom of the local 7-11 in Kenilworth either.

No, these men and women clearly meant business, and their naked enthusiasm and ripped torsos NEARLY had me feeling motivated and inspired, until I slumped down on one of the nearby couches and let the moment pass.

The gym, although offering massively expensive fees, still boasted an eclectic blend of people from different walks of life, with whites and blacks exercising side by side in perfect racial harmony, much like a Carling Black Label television advert, although no one took me up on the offer to drink a crate of beer afterward.

My personal trainer eventually pitched up, armed with massive biceps as huge as my ego, with an uber trendy name to match. Ryder was the lad's name, no doubt given to him by hippy liberal parents who smoked too much marijuana, drove a brightly coloured Beetle, and were not to be trusted around items of value. I certainly didn’t trust Ryder, watching in mild panic as he posed and postured in front of The Girlfriend, who swooned at the sight of his admittedly impressive frame.

Our personalised programs dictated that she would be sent to the rowing machine for cardio work, whilst I was hauled to the weights section, to be put on the upper body program specifically designed for twelve year old boys. The pre-pubescent kids of today seem to be living on protein and steroid juice, as I humiliated myself trying to lift the dumbbells, much to the surprise of my trainer, who I now regarded as a mortal enemy of mine.

Writing off the weights, it was off to the treadmills for some speed training. The only sprinting I do is at the Table Mountain nature reserve, where I am often forced to dash off to evade the delinquent youths who try to mug and stab me. These regular exertions clearly paid off though, as I managed to complete my sprinting program without dying, in the process producing enough perspiration to fill up the Olympic pool downstairs, which was ironically our next destination.

I was now clad in a tight-fitting Speedo which disappointingly was relatively bulge-free, OBVIOUSLY due to the unpleasantly cold conditions, as I kept informing passers by who seemed unconvinced.

Nevertheless, despite the freezing temperatures, I managed to doggy paddle my way through two whole laps, earning the respect of the crowd who had gathered to watch, and getting a great send off once Ryder pulled me out of the pool with one of his tree trunk arms.

So that's been the gist of my first gym training session in yonkers. My ego feels bruised, my entire body hurts, and I'm walking around in a strange and peculiar manner.

It's like my first day at High School all over again.

[ | ]

It was Sunday, and The Girlfriend and I were vigorously walking around the "hood", something we try and do regularly, as this prevents us from becoming fat and sexually unattractive. We had just turned the corner in Weltevreden street in Gardens, when she uttered her often used line, "What the f**k?". This phrase usually comes out her mouth whenever I do something moronic or disappointing, like forgetting her at the airport or burning our bed with my GHD hair styler.

On this occasion it was aimed at someone else though. She had just witnessed a family in a black jeep-like vehicle who had pulled over and thrown out their rubbish onto the pavement, like a tik-addicted mother throwing her baby out with the bathwater. The Girlfriend, a keen environmentalist, was understandably incensed at the Pick n Pay doughnut box, Energade bottles and assorted bits of paper that had just landed on the street, and sauntered over to the car, with me in hot pursuit. Going over to the passenger window, she was greeted by a youngish black woman, wearing designer shades and a serious lack of moral ethics.

"Excuse me," enquired The Girlfriend, "did you just throw this litter out your car?"

The woman, who appeared somewhat dumbfounded, stared at us blankly for a few seconds, before composing herself and answering in the affirmative, "Yes, I did."

"Why would you do that?" said I, somewhat perplexed by her apparent ignorance. Blatant littering was like pissing on your office pot plant, or spitting in the public library - it was socially unacceptable. Her answer literally knocked me back, sending me sprawling into the nearby security gate. "Because I can.", she responded, in a manner which indicated she thought this to be a witty and clever retort.

"Because you can?!?" said The Girlfriend, incredulously.

"Yes. I can," she emphasised arrogantly, before her soft-cock of a husband decided that this was enough, and pulled away with screeching tyres, just as The Girlfriend was about to launch herself into the vehicle, and cut off their noses to spite their faces.

What was even more disturbing, besides the sheer audacity of this littering cow, was that this was done in front of her three young kids, who were seated at the back, and probably thought this to be acceptable behaviour.

Let me just convey the message - this was NOT acceptable behaviour, and this was NOT smart, especially when you're driving around with personalised Cape Town number plates which are easy to remember, Jimmy 1 - WP.

Yes, Jimmy 1 - WP, James or whatever your name is - you are a disgrace and your wife / girlfriend seems to have as much intelligence as a common garden slug. Maybe we should just invite members of the public to dump their rubbish and unwanted shit on to YOUR property.

"Because they can".

In fact, I would suggest that everyone in Cape Town keeps on eye out for Jimmy 1 - WP, it's a black jeep, a smaller model than the usual 4x4, and let him know what a littering wanker he is.

Okay. Rant over.

Just needed to get that off my chest.

Let's get back to being nice and having fun again.

[ | ]

Back in the heady days of crèche (pre-school), the teachers would often make a point to highlight the major flaws in my life.

"Oakes!" the teacher would shriek, whilst putting her cigarette out on my arm, "there are three things you need to work on in life, namely; your excessive dandruff problem, your weird tendency to try and smell random strangers' feet, as well as your sheer ineptitude in social situations. Sort that shit out, and fetch me another beer."

Since then, my dry scalp dilemma has become a thing of the past, thanks to Head & Shoulders and the wearing of white-collared shirts, whilst the smelling of feet is... well... ja, kept in check.

When it comes to certain social situations however, I still occasionally find myself flailing, like a person who cannot swim being tossed into the ocean by members of the Italian Mafioso. I'm not an arsehole or anything like that. It's just a bit of a tradition of mine to say and do things which puts me in an awkward situation, like something straight out of a comedy starring Ricky Gervais, except it isn't a comedy and no one is really laughing. Even basic stuff like greeting someone you know at the gym baffles me sometimes - I never greet anyone first, as I'm superstitious and believe I'll turn into a pillar of salt if I do this.

Normally I just pretend that I haven't seen the person. If I REALLY want them to greet me, I will hover around their line of sight until they come over.

"Yo Shaun," they will holla at me, the way gangsters holla at their homeboys.
"Hiii!" I will say, pretending to be slightly startled, "how long have you been here?"
"I've been here for a while hey, my friend said she saw you looking this way, and from then on you kept hanging around our line of sight."
"No I didn't. You friend is a f**king liar. And a whore," I will retort. Then I will feel bad and try to remedy the situation.

"Okay, to be fair - she isn't a whore, I can't really back that claim up. But she certainly is a liar."

The damage will already have been done however, and before I know it, I'll have a dumbbell wedged against my neck, an athletic shoe up my ass, and my gym membership revoked.

If it's not that, then it's making small talk with people I haven't seen in years. I HATE small talk, I hate it the way Andrew Symonds hates streakers, except I can't shoulder block small talk because it's so damn intangible. Like joy or the feeling of happiness.

Basically I never know what to say, Whenever I tell them the truth - that I'm a ludicrously successful bastard who literally pisses excellence, which I then bottle and sell at the Neighbourhood Market in Woodstock - it makes me sound boastful and they begin to resent me. This then leads to them spitting in the coffee or refreshing beverage I am usually holding in my hand, which annoys me as my drink then tastes phlegmy, which gives me horrible headaches as well as delusions of grandeur. Thus, I normally make a point of being pretty vague and mysterious with what I've been up to.

"Ja, I've been doing this and that," I will say nonchalantly, whilst polishing my monocle with the sleeve of my white-collared shirt. So I then end up sounding like an evasive and unambitious bum, although this approach does leave me to enjoy my drink.

My preferred method of small talk is the one where we're both moving passed one another at swift speed - usually at a mall or similar shopping complex. This then give me the opportunity to use the classic "Hey-how-you-doing-well-and-you-good-good" greeting, which leaves you with nothing more to say to the person really. If they DO decide to stop, I usually retort with a stiff karate kick to the solar plexus, which will ensure that they NEVER stop to talk to me again.

Then there are the occasions when I DO actually want to speak to someone I know or haven't seen in years. Of course, my mind will then blank out and I will obviously forget their names. When I'm with The Girlfriend, I usually stroke my groin region twice, which she now knows is the sign that she has to introduce herself, allowing me to then catch the name of the person I am chatting to. Occasionally she will try and humiliate me though, actually asking ME to do the introduction. I normally respond by collapsing on the floor and contorting my body into oddly fascinating shapes, hoping this will distract the friend or family member into not realising that I don't know their name.

Sometimes I just end up doing strange shit, like last week when we had pizza at Primi (Piatti). There was a newspaper on the table where we were to be seated, and as I picked it up, the waitress came over, greeted us, and then put out her hand. "Well, this is rather formal," I mused, and proceeded to put the paper down and shake her hand, like an old gentleman shaking the hand of his good friend Mr Lamberts, who he visits every day to watch the horse races. As we shook hands, I embarrassingly realised what she actually wanted, but the waitress - to her credit - went with it, and so we carried on shaking one another's hands in awkward silence for about 5-6 seconds, with The Girlfriend standing to the left of the waitress silently mouthing "You f**king weirdo" to me. Several times.

She shouldn't complain though, as the first time we made out was also due to a social folly of mine. We had been chatting for about 15 minutes at a night club, and I had just spiked her drink, when she pulled me toward her. Instinctively, I dove in and gave her a sensual kiss, which travelled through her loins like a flaming hawk. Turns out she was actually pulling me out of the way, as the drunken patron behind me was busy hurling out his internal organs, and she would have felt bad if I ended up smelling like raw kidney.

And the rest, as they say, is how the wind blows ever after.

So is this weird, or does anyone else have any stories to share?

[ | ]

As everyone knows, Stellenbosch is crawling with dangerous criminals on a Saturday night. They usually tend to congregate in venues around the town, drinking beer, playing pool and dancing to crappy commercial music.

This of course is all done whilst plotting to hijack cars, rob the local FNB, and illegally download the latest Kurt Darren album.

The South African Police Service were having none of that though, and decided to flex their muscles the past weekend.


The SAPS - Kicking Ass And Taking Names.

As is usualy the case these days, a video has surfaced, showing the boys in blue in all their glory, shoving around the hoodlums at a place called Bohemia.

Watch the bit round the 1min03 second mark, when our chubby and defiant boy (who has been quietly sipping his beer while the shit has been going down) decides he will NOT lie on the ground, and casually sits on his chair. Watch him get dragged like a naughty school boy and receive a five knuckle sandwhich for his effort.

Take that hero.

Bang!

And good night.

[ | ]

It's a lazy Sunday at The HQ right now, I was busy going through my stock portfolio earlier when a gang of six Hansa Marzen Golds came out of nowhere and tried to knock me around. Naturally, I was having none of that, and so knocked them all back.

After that little skirmish, I felt pretty sociable and thus decided take a drive and find people to dice with on the highway, but was stopped by a frenzied mob of cyclists who were furiously peddling away on the M3. What those inconsiderate f**kers were doing there is beyond me, someone mentioned something about a race, but who races on a Sunday anyway?

Isn't it illegal to do that on the Sabbath? Like buying booze or wearing grey shoes?

Anyhoo, as it's the month of March, I'm starting to feel some of the Christmas spirit and so will share with you some of the rather strange emails I regularly receive.

What was that? You're not interested?

F**k you then, I wasn't even talking to you, I was speaking to everyone else. You were never invited anyway, I just spoke to you that one night because I thought your friend was hot.

In any event, here are some of my recent favourites, which are all entirely authentic, and in no way made up:

Name: D STRYDOM
Email: duanes@*********
Message:

Dear Pick & Pay Ballito,

I purchased some fresh items on Sunday for a get together at my house which included chicken breasts and various "fresh" vegeables. This was all good and well untill i opened the meat which had the most horrific smell (all 4 packs of them), i had to dig into my freezer and chnged the menu, moving on to your so called fresh produce in the vegetable section it was yet another shocker! My lettuce were accompanied by a snail, the prepacked tomatoes were soggy as well as a pupl cucumber! I come from an fmcg background where you were my biggest customer but sadly you lost this one. In total i had to toss R456.47 in the dustbin, might seem small to you but all these thigs add up and therefore you create inflation n households!

Ex-PnP Shopper

D Strydom
Ballito (Simbithi)

Strong words there, D Strydom. I would probably be pretty pissed at finding a snail in my lettuce as well. Not that I have anything AGAINST snails mind you... some of my best friends are snails... Seriously, I just don't like them with my lettuce, that's all.


A Liberal: Some Of Shaun's Closest Friends Are In Fact, Snails.

Why D Strydom sent this to me, Jesus Hernandez only knows. It could have been because of the piece on Pick n Pay I wrote a while back, but you honestly never know with these people from Ballito. They're a bunch of strange birds.

Name: Mrs C Van Wyngaardt
Email: ****@dwergieland.co.za
Message:

I need somebody to help me with my home telephone line which is out of order since 22 November 2007, no response, the cable is lying in my backyard, I need the telephone urgently
My home number is (***) *** ****

My contact details (***) *** ****
Thank you

The most intriguing thing about this, besides the fact that Mrs Van Wyngaardt thinks I work for Telkom, is her email address.

Yes, it says "dwergieland", which loosely translates to "Land Of Midgets". This is just another example of an Afrikaans name sounding more appealing than it's English translation - I can't imagine the residents of Kokstad ever wanting their town's name referred to as "Dick City", but that's really what it boils down to at the end of the day.


A Resident Of Dick City, Looking Annoyed.

The Dwergieland website doesn't appear to be up yet, but I've been checking regularly for the last few weeks and can't wait to see what this will be all about, it keeps me up at night thinking in anticipation.

Name: Steven
Email: ******@hotmail.com
Message:

Shaun your a fat ugly f**k !!
This site sucks !!!
Oh..and in your pic u look like a heavy masturbator porn downloading freak
Sure you spend all your time writing this k*k cause u cant get a chick...LOSER !!!!!!!
Publish this is you have the balls..or are you only brave when it comes to slaggin other things off...typical
social commentating coward

I look forward to meeting you one day.

Steven

I notice that this type of message appears in my Inbox whenever I make a comment about the mediocrity of local singer Danny K. Judging by the descriptive style of writing (you fat ugly f**k), the choice of adjectives used to describe me (porn downloading freak) and the use of exclamations marks after the word "loser" (I count seven) leads me to believe that the author is either Danny K himself, or my mom.

... Wow, I've just read over all this again. Pretty weak effort, Mr Oakes. We really DID scrape the barrel today. I think I know someone who needs to up his game.

Until next time then. Take care of yourself, aaaand each other.

[ | ]

I was planning to write a nostalgic piece about my days as an international backup dancer, but at the moment it's just too hot for me to think back to those lazy, hazy, crazy days of Summer.

Those days of soda, and pretzels, and beer.

How crazy is the weather? For those of you not in Cape Town, this is what we're currently dealing with:


Cape Town - What We're Currently Dealing With.

I know it's considered cool to talk about how great the weather is in Cape Town, but I have had quite enough. Things are becoming QUITE ridiculous at the moment.

I stepped outside earlier on to buy some tampons, and literally melted on the pavement, turning into a puddle of uninspired liquid goo.

Luckily The Girlfriend had a bucket in her handbag - it's as if she just knew - and managed to scoop me up and pop me in the freezer, until I managed to chill out a bit.

Which brings us to the next item on our agenda - I see we (you and I) have been nominated for a couple of categories on the SA Blog Awards. This caught me off guard a little bit, until it was brought to my attention that I actually ASKED all of you to do this for me a while back. So thanks for that. I forget about these things sometimes. That's why you're here for me, we complement one another - I am the Double Toffee Frozen yoghurt, you are the sweaty obese woman.

Now of course, you will be expected to make sure that I win, otherwise this whole experience would have been like a Danny K song - utterly pointless.

To vote, just click on the image below:


Shaun - Pointing To The Awards

If you do this, it automatically selects me, and then you can just mozy down and type in your email address and the number they give to make sure you are human.

BUT WAIT! The next part is tricky. Once you click "Submit" that isn't the end of it. They send you an email with a link that you need to copy and paste in your browser and ONLY THEN is the voting procedure complete, so don't be caught out.

If I win the blog of the year award I will in all likelihood to throw a massive party with lots of cheap liquor and easy women. And some easy men as well. But mostly easy women. So get cracking and cast those votes.

Aaaand scene.

[ | ]

It's India vs Australia in the cricket world series final. A streaker runs on the field and tries to make a beeline for Andrew Symonds.

Watch at the 40 second mark. Classic stuff.



Interestingly enough, The Girlfriend uses the same technique whenever she has a headache and doesn't want to sleep with me, despite my advances.

[ | ]

I enjoy wearing clothes. It makes me feel happy and I think it makes other people feel happy too.

As I'm quite a hairy - yet ludicrously handsome - devil, I've noticed that the public generally seem to be more pleasant toward me when I'm wearing something, as opposed to when I'm NOT wearing something, which usually occurs on hot summer days, or every third Wednesday.


Shaun: Hairy - Yet Ludicrously Handsome - Devil

It is quite ironic then, that I regularly struggle to find clothing attire to suit my chiselled Adonis-like body.

The problem you see, lies with my arms. I have really long arms, it fact they're freakishly long, like Mr Fantastic from the Fantastic Four - I'm actually able to drive my car from the back seat, I find it comfortable and it relaxes me as I can rest my head on the back of the front seat and take miniature power naps whilst the traffic lights are red.

Growing up, I used to drag them along the ground next to me, together with my shadow and my imaginary friend Seamus, and so was understandably mocked by school kids as well as my parents. I've since grown into them a little better, but it's still near impossible to find a decent jacket to suit my needs.

Yes, that was a deliberate pun. I used the word "suit" whilst talking about jackets. Read it again, see how clever I am.

What I used to do was just roll the jacket sleeves up, but that was back in the 80's and when Miami Vice got cancelled, it kind of killed that vibe. When I DO manage to find jacket sleeves long enough, the jacket itself tends to be big enough for me to live in and start a family, so I don't particularly dig that vibe either.


Miami Vice - Getting Cancelled Killed The Rolled Up Sleeve Vibe.

So what's up with male fashion these days? Why are they only making clothes for sickeningly thin men with short arms and no upper body definition? The other day I was at YDE and tried on an XL t-shirt. The t-shirt apparently seemed to be a midriff top, as that was where it ended - just above my midriff, where my belly button normally chills.

"Rameez!" barked Shaun at the YDE shop assistant with the abnormally spiked hair, "What the f**k am I doing with a midriff top? Has this become fashionable again?"

Rameez looked slightly bewildered, as if I had just taken a poo on his white crocodile leather shoes, "My name isn't Rameez, it's" - "It doesn't MATTER what your name is!" I interjected, and gave him a karate kick in the solar plexus for trying to correct me. "Get your little ass back to the Weird Willy aisle, and find me something that fits nicely". Turns out there was nothing there that fitted nicely, forcing me to walk off with three slightly homo-erotic t-shirts.

Then at Urban, I came across a range of jackets that were fairly decent - sure, they DID end just passed my elbows, but if I hunched my back and contorted my shoulder blades just right, I was able to look fairly normal. A nervous looking sales assistant pulled me aside however, and talked me out of it.

"You shouldn't have to put up with this," he said with a defiant glint in his eye. It was then that I noticed his 2 metre long forearms, carefully nestled around his ankles, he was one of us. "A storm is coming, and soon people are going to have to take sides," he continued somewhat dramatically. My attention was diverted though, by the voluptuous sales assistant with the low cut top, who had just bent down to pick up the white linen pants I had deliberately tossed into her path, hoping for a classic cleavage shot.

Seemingly out of nowhere, 3 men in black suits jumped out of an unmarked van which appeared outside the store. How they managed to get the van into the Canal Walk mall itself was beyond me, but there they were, grabbing my nervous sales assistant, knocking him out with a chloroform-soaked rag, and bundling him into the van, which then sped off through the mall. Amazing stuff.

Clearly there is some sort of conspiracy going on that I don't know of. Many questions remain, and some answers still need to be found:

1) Where can one find fitted jackets in Cape Town?
2) Are tailors a viable option?
3) Where does one actually find a good tailor in 2008?
4) What was Rameez's real name?

These are just some of the things keeping me up at night, the others of course being the mosquito gang in my bedroom as well as The Girlfriend's incessant snoring.

If anyone can help me with answers though, give me a shout.


[ | ]

I once knew a guy by the name of Eric*, who ran in the same circles as I did a few years back, in the days when meat was cheap, and gang banging was the only life we knew.

At the risk of sounding shallow, Eric was a rather strange-looking chap, with a bent nose, pig-like eyes, and a lack of any discernable facial hair. He also had a nose ring inserted, strangely enough, in his nose, like those red-eyed bulls you see in morning cartoons.

Despite all these setbacks though, women found him to be incredibly attractive, and he would regularly sleep with hundreds of them on a daily basis, although none of them would actually own up to it afterward. The fact was, despite Eric looking like a pierced mole-pig-man, he had something, which made him highly desirable to the opposite sex. They were queuing up to sleep with him, albeit incognito, as they were slightly embarrassed by it all. These weren't unattractive women or the skanks you might find at Tin Roof either, these were quality, level-headed women.

Which brings us to Amy Winehouse.

Sure, she isn't conventionally good-looking, gives off quite a trashy vibe, and looks as if she has the potential to smell a bit off, but am I the only one nursing a bit of a semi at the thought of her?


Amy Winehouse - Giving You A Semi?

I have a feeling I'm not, and many other guys probably feel the same way. It's what's become known as the Winehouse Effect, and in layman's terms, it's when you're attracted to someone who you REALLY shouldn't be attracted to, and you're actually quite ashamed to admit to it.

It could be because they're incredibly trashy, slightly strange, any reason really - it can't be explained, you just want to put them over your knee and give them a bloody good hiding.

So, does anyone else feel the same way about Amy? Is it really that weird?

*That is his real name.

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